


Bent, Not Broken

by IamShadow21



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adrenaline, Aftercare, Anonymous Sex, BDSM, Bars and Pubs, Bathroom Sex, Butt Plugs, Casual Sex, Chance of Discovery, Comfort Sex, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Gay Bar, M/M, Nightclub, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Submission, Submissive Harry, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-12
Updated: 2008-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bent, Not Broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [star54kar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/star54kar/gifts), [satindolls](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=satindolls), [shocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shocolate).



> Happy Birthday !
> 
> The prompt words I used were: ice, dungeon(s), taste, touch, fire (fiery), heat.
> 
> (Yes, I posted something for her the other day, but she _paid_ for that one. This is her real birthday fic. A little late, I know.)
> 
> Also, this story goes out to satindolls, shocolate, and everybody else who's having rough times with RL at the moment. Hopefully this porn will bring some happy.
> 
> The title is inspired by Jean de la Fontaine's fable [The Oak and the Reed](http://www.aesopfables.com/cgi/aesop1.cgi?jdlf&i22ms). EDIT - The link now goes to a translation that is much easier to read. Far less archaic, this one, I promise.

Harry swirled the ice in his glass and took another mouthful of the fiery, potent spirit. He’d winced at the first sip, but now he barely noticed the taste, and it slid down easily. The knots of tension in his shoulders loosened and unwound, and soon he was much more relaxed; leaning on the bar, signalling for another, loosening his tie, nodding his head to the deafening heartbeat of the music.

It was called The Dungeon, and it was a fairly recent addition to Magical London. _The Prophet_ had condemned it, _Witch Weekly_ had called it ‘a den of licentious behaviour seducing our young’ and _Quidditch Monthly_ had printed a two-page-spread on the Quidditch-themed bar on the second level. 

Then an enterprising Colin Creevey came up with the idea of parking himself near the entrance and snapping photos of all the bright young things going into the club. The society pages were instantly full of photographs of sports stars and Pureblooded heirs dressed in Muggle apparel and stylish vintage robes, and The Dungeon was having to turn away patrons every night to prevent overcrowding.

Harry had made an effort to get there rather unfashionably early. He’d skipped the crowds, skipped all the reporters except Colin (he’d flipped him a few Galleons, when Colin had politely honoured his request for ‘no photos tonight, mate’) and found a good position where he could wait, and watch.

It was mostly full, now. There was the familiar din; shrieks and chatter wound to a painful pitch to rise above the thud and grind of the band. People pressed in on all sides, but none bothered him. He’d mastered the basic _notice-me-not_ years ago, and wore it most of the time he was in public, these days. Unless someone knew him personally, their eyes would slide right over him unless he spoke to them. Another reason to get there early – he had to introduce himself to the barman, if it wasn’t one he’d already met.

He polished off another drink, and had just set the glass back on the bar, when something caught his eye through the flickering lights, through the kaleidoscope of colour and sound. He felt his mouth go a little dry, and his heartbeat went up a notch. Yes, there he was, across the room, through the crowd, and he was _watching_ him.

Harry wondered how long he’d been standing there, eyes caressing him, drinking in every movement Harry made. He was already hard just thinking about it. Their gaze was locked, and Harry could see promises and temptation and lust in those eyes. A moment’s hesitation, and Harry nodded.

He cut through the crowd towards Harry, brushing past, signalling Harry to follow with only a short jerk of his head. They wound through the maze of people talking, dancing, drinking and fighting. None spared them a look.

Though there was a huge queue outside the ladies’, the gents’ was half-empty. They had barely shut the door on the nearest unoccupied stall when Harry found himself slammed against the wall. He was being kissed aggressively, and rubbed firmly through his trousers, and what he felt, most of all, besides arousal was… contentment.

Harry reached down to reciprocate, and moaned appreciatively at what he found. It was hard, and thick, and Harry could feel the heat of it against his palm. He wasn’t satisfied with touching it through fabric; he needed to feel it, stroke it, _taste_ it. Harry broke the kiss and dropped to his knees.

Harry knew he was good at sucking cock. He loved doing it, loved the blend of power and submission, loved the way every hiss or moan or hitch of breath belonged to _him_ and wound his own arousal up another notch. However, he also knew that sometimes a blow job, giving _or_ receiving one, just wasn’t enough. That was why, when Harry heard him say “stop” in a strained whisper, he immediately complied. 

Harry stood, began undoing his trousers, then allowed his hands to be batted away without protest. Those warm, clever fingers made short work of his fly and pushed both trousers and pants down over his hips without ceremony. They stroked Harry’s cock once, twice, three times before stopping, leaving him unsatisfied. Rather than protesting at the tease, Harry turned, placing his palms flat on the wall, _offering_ himself.

Harry heard the snap of a tube of lube being opened and shut, the shuffle of shoes on the floor as he moved closer, then a sharp intake of breath and a sound that was almost a whine. Harry knew he’d just seen base of the butt plug Harry had in. It was quite thick and let out a tantalizing little pulse at irregular intervals. Harry had put it in before he’d got to the club, knowing, just knowing, that tonight was a night he wanted to be ready for.

Harry moaned helplessly when he felt it being withdrawn slowly from him. It had been in there for ages, and he felt empty without it, but he knew he wouldn’t be for long.

“I’m ready,” he whispered breathlessly. “Please, just fuck me.”

“Okay. _Contego connubialis_.” The Protective Charm brushed over both of them like a light breeze.

Harry had been loosened by the plug, but not so much that he didn’t feel the burn of the breach or every inch of the cock that pushed into him. Rather than flinching or tightening up, Harry felt his body relax even further in a way alcohol could never replicate, felt a heady rush of pleasure, and heard a wanton, desperate sound escape his lips. Oh yes, he had needed _this_.

His work was high pressure, the press were forever nipping at his heels, and the aftermath of the war had left Harry with little time, little privacy and a lot of stress. Fortunately, he’d discovered (after several frustrating and unsatisfying years fumbling with girls) that _nothing_ worked better to help him unwind than a cock up his arse, and a man attached to it, holding on to him tightly, hammering him so hard he’d feel it for over a day. It was something about the sheer _passivity_ involved. You just couldn’t be tense in that situation. You’d injure yourself. Letting go of everything and just _being_ , just _feeling_ , just pushing back and meeting every thrust again and again worked better than a Calming Draught ever could. In a boring meeting, as he had shifted from one tender cheek to the other, Harry had once idly wondered if he could patent it somehow. He was sure that it would send potioneers everywhere out of business.

The pounding picked up the pace, and Harry felt a sharp bite on his shoulder that made his eyes roll up in his head. A tongue clumsily laved it and soothed it, while a hand grabbed Harry’s cock and began pumping it. Harry’s knees wobbled; an arm encircled his waist, holding him up, while the thrusts increased in tempo and ferocity to the point where he could feel his feet almost leaving the floor.

He could hear his cries, jerky and uneven, the slap of skin, the grunts of his partner dissolving into one long, protracted groan, and then a bright explosion of pleasure filled him up. He could feel his skin pulsing, felt the hand on him slow down to give long, squeezing strokes, just how he liked it, drawing out his orgasm for the longest possible moment. Finally he was spent and gasping for breath, his ears ringing, his limbs all loose and floppy.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked softly.

He always asked. Harry had told him before that he didn’t need to, that he could handle it however rough he was, but Harry understood that maybe _Ron_ needed to ask, for himself, so he didn’t let it annoy him. Instead, he gave a happy little giggle and hummed, turning his face to rub his cheek against Ron’s neck. Ron was holding him up, mostly. He always had to for a minute or so, after one of these encounters. The afterglow was so intense that his knees were like jelly. If he wasn’t held up, he’d fall down.

“What you needed?” Ron pressed a kiss to Harry’s brow.

“Uh huh,” Harry responded.

Harry was standing a little better now, and Ron was straightening their clothes, spelling them clean, _Tergeo_ ing the butt plug and tucking it into his pocket for safekeeping. Harry turned and leant his back against the wall, breathing deeply, basking in the euphoria.

“Can you walk yet?” Ron asked. Harry nodded.

Their journey through the club and out onto the street was a little wobbly. Knowing Harry was quite spacey and would be for some time yet, Ron steered him expertly through the crowd, shielding him from being knocked and jostled. Harry nuzzled into Ron’s shoulder, his eyes mostly shut, hardly even looking where they were going. He felt nothing but complete trust right now, trust that Ron would look after him. The anxiety that drove him to double or triple check the wards every night at home had dissipated for the time being.

“Had a bit much, has he?” the security wizard on the door said, looking down at Harry swaying, and at Ron’s hand on Harry’s waist, which looked casual but was actually supporting him quite a lot. The charm was still in place; to the wizard, Harry was just another patron who couldn’t hold his drink.

“Just the right amount, actually,” Harry countered, smiling lazily. He held on tight as Ron Apparated them home.


End file.
